Music Hath Charms
by Nancy Kaminski
Summary: Lacroix visits Nick to chat about archaeology and the old home town. Their chat is interrupted by something entirely unexpected. Warning: adult themes, torture by accordion.


Well, I thought of a new way to make Nick's life uncomfortable! Yup,  
it's time for another goofy story!  
  
We know Nick and Lacroix belong to TPTB. And although I've put them  
in embarrassing positions, they get returned with nary a scratch on  
them.  
  
A few disclaimers: No disparagements are meant to the excellent  
magazine, "Archaeology," to which I subscribe. I only borrowed the  
concept. And you know, I think they'd publish the article discussed  
below.  
  
No accordions were hurt in the writing of this story, not even my  
pearlized red and gold one. I did take out my old sheet music and  
play a nostalgic rendition of "Lady of Spain," but I burned it  
afterwards so I'd never be tempted to do it again. There are some  
things the world just doesn't need---and "Lady of Spain" is one of  
them. g  
  
Warning: Euphemized inexplicit M/M sex ahead. NNPAckers might want to  
hit the Delete button right now.  
  
And now, on with the story.  
  
~~~~~  
  
Music Hath Charms...  
  
by Nancy Kaminski  
(c) April 1998  
  
  
~~~~~  
  
"Good evening, Nicholas," said Lacroix austerely. "I have  
something---interesting---for you to look at. If you are so inclined,  
of course."  
  
Nick reluctantly moved away from the elevator door, allowing the  
tall, black-clad figure to enter. "What is it?" he asked, half  
annoyed, half intrigued by his master's appearance on his doorstep so  
close to dawn. If he wasn't careful, Lacroix would have to spend the  
whole day at the loft. Nick had just gotten home himself, and had  
planned to read his mail, pay a few bills, and then settle down with  
a good book. Trading barbs with Lacroix hadn't been part of the day's  
agenda at all.  
  
Moving towards the black leather sofa in the living room, Lacroix  
indicated the stack of mail in Nick's hand. "I see you have just  
received your copy of 'Archaeological Review,' as have I." He held up  
a copy of the magazine. It was a glossy publication that featured  
articles written with just enough scholarly detail to satisfy the  
serious archaeology devotee, while remaining accessible to the casual  
reader interested in mummies, ancient fertility rituals, and other  
topics dear to the hearts of cable television documentary producers.  
"There is an article in it you might find amusing." He sat down and  
made himself comfortable, clearly planning to stay for a while.  
  
"I didn't think you were interested in archaeology, Lacroix," Nick  
said, sitting down in the chair opposite the sofa.  
  
"True---normally I have no interest in reliving my past, or seeing it  
badly interpreted by ignoramuses, but this particular issue caught my  
eye at the newsstand."  
  
Nick thought he detected a gleam of some sort---amusement?---in  
Lacroix's eyes, increasing his curiosity. He picked up his copy,  
examined the cover for a clue to the source of the gleam. It featured  
a spectacularly ugly but rare piece of Toltec pottery. That wouldn't  
be it... He scanned the list of articles. Hmmmm. 'The Nineveh  
Marbles?' No. 'Cloud People of the Himalayas?' Unlikely. 'Pompeii's  
Villa of the Frescos?' Aha.  
  
"This article about the old home town?" Nick inquired, turning to the  
indicated page.  
  
"Home town, yes---and home." Lacroix sat back and watched Nick's  
face. "It seems the grave robbers---excuse me, the archaeologists---  
have finally gotten around to my old neighborhood."  
  
Nick raised his eyebrows. "The Villa of the Frescos was yours?"  
  
Lacroix nodded. "One of several domiciles, actually. It was smaller  
than the country estate, and less grand than the one in Rome, but it  
was my favorite."  
  
Seeing the mortal Lacroix's house would be an insight into his master  
Nick couldn't pass up. He found the page and started reading with  
interest.  
  
The article was somewhat short on text, but lavishly illustrated with  
color photographs of the recently-excavated villa. Although the roof  
had caved in from the weight of the hot ash that had fallen on it, it  
was otherwise almost entirely intact. The first photograph Nick  
examined showed a large, elegant atrium, the impluvium beautifully  
tiled with a mosaic of ocean creatures and fanciful plants. A bronze  
statue of a nymph graced the now-dry pool.  
  
Another photograph, this one of one of the living areas, showed  
household goods scattered about the floor where they had fallen those  
two thousand years ago. "Messy housekeeping," Nick commented with a  
sideways glance, unable to resist offering a jibe.  
  
Lacroix refused to be baited. "Understandably, the staff left in a  
hurry. Keep reading," he commanded, unperturbed.  
  
Nick continued reading the article. The author, the Italian scientist  
who had led the excavation, enthused---in a suitably restrained  
scientific way, of course---about the quality of the workmanship, the  
beauty of the architecture, and the remarkable frescos that graced  
the inner rooms. (Enthusiasm *for* science was admirable. Enthusiasm  
*in* science, however, even in a quasi-popular journal, was something  
to be avoided at all costs.)  
  
She barely held onto her professional reserve, however, when it came  
to describing "...the unusual and highly realistic frescos found in  
two of the largest rooms off the peristyle. They appear to depict  
some sort of priapic rite, the religious significance of which is  
currently unknown."  
  
Nick's eyebrows raised slightly at the passage. 'Priapic rites?' He  
turned the page to find a foldout color photograph of the main  
fresco. His eyebrows threatened to creep into his hairline, while a  
faint flush coursed through his body.  
  
The jumble of human figures---both male and female, limbs entwined,  
garments flying artistically here and there, amid a bucolic setting  
of flora and fauna (the fauna thankfully simply watching and not  
participating)---was, to Nick's somewhat straightlaced eyes, frankly  
pornographic.  
  
"Interesting," he finally murmured as he examined the exquisite  
detail of the fresco in question. He thought of and discarded several  
comments and decided to play it safe. "I'm amazed," he ventured, "at  
the constancy of your hair style, Lacroix...I didn't know it was  
possible to achieve a buzz cut in those days."  
  
Indeed, the central figure in the fresco, entangled with several  
others, was recognizably his master, although the Lucius in the  
painting was sun-bronzed and wearing considerably fewer garments than  
the present incarnation. The flush Nick had felt at first sight of  
the fresco buzzed pleasureably in his stomach, then started migrating  
southwards to settle in his groin. Suddenly his black woolen trousers  
felt somewhat confining. He kept his eyes firmly on the page,  
unwilling to admit to his state of arousal to his master.  
  
Lacroix smiled in reminiscence, a far-off look on his face. "I owned  
an Egyptian slave who was an excellent barber---only one of his many  
talents. In fact," he mused, "I believe one of the plaster casts of  
unfortunates the excavation team made *was* Paneb; I recognized the  
curve of his delightfully firm rump." He was silent a moment,  
perhaps thinking about the sad waste of such a tonsorial talent.  
"He must have waited for me to return from Seline's soiree---loyal to  
the end. I was, however, otherwise engaged."  
  
Lacroix's finger absently traced a small circle on his thigh. "Is  
that all you have to say, Nicholas? I thought you might have some  
thoughts on the subject of the frescos---as a student of art and  
archaeology, of course. I would be interested in your evaluation."  
  
Nick cleared his throat---for some reason, his voice had gone hoarse.  
Striving for composure, he said, "Ah, yes...well, it certainly isn't  
the *usual* sort of painting found in Pompeii." He regarded the  
photograph again, now with a critical eye. He had to admit to himself  
that the painting was quite---stimulating---notwithstanding its moral  
faults. He turned the magazine sideways to get a different  
perspective on the scene, and frowned. How did they do that? His  
traitorous imagination put himself in place of the figure most  
involved with Lacroix. It had been so long since he had let his  
sensuous side loose... He pushed the thought firmly away. Aloud, he  
continued, "The composition is excellent...a marvelous use of  
color...the astonishing realism shows the hand of a master."  
  
Lacroix was watching Nick intently, seeming to hang on his every  
word. "Indeed, I hired the best painter in Rome to create it."  
  
Nick shifted uncomfortably in his seat under Lacroix's penetrating  
scrutiny. He turned his attention back to the figures in the fresco.  
That had to hurt *something*. He continued, "As for the subjects,  
they all seem---you seem---remarkably, uh, limber to achieve such a,  
uh, configuration..." He fidgeted some more. "The author mentions the  
subject is, uh, some kind of priapic rite...?"  
  
"Archaeologists!" Lacroix said scornfully. He stood up and strode to  
the windows. "Always finding religious significance where there is  
none. Show them a kitchen pot and it becomes a ceremonial vessel.  
They wouldn't recognize a simple decoration if it fell on them." He  
made a disgusted noise.  
  
Nick gestured to the unsettling photograph. "So this bit of Imperial  
Roman pornography is just---decoration?"  
  
Lacroix let a moment pass, his chill blue gaze on his overly-buttoned  
up creation. Finally, he shook his head sorrowfully. "I'm  
disappointed in you, Nicholas." He walked over to stand directly  
behind him, looking over his shoulder at the photo. "This 'bit of  
Imperial Roman pornography,' as you style it, merely served to set  
the mood, as it were, at certain festivities held at my home. After  
all, when a warrior returns triumphant from the wars, celebrations  
are in order." His hand dropped to rest lightly on Nick's shoulder.  
"It was...inspirational."  
  
Nick thought back to several post-battle celebrations he had  
participated in, and despite his misgivings had to agree (not out  
loud, of course), although none of *his* celebrations had included  
inspirational wall murals. He and his companions had had to use  
their imaginations.  
  
Righting the magazine, Nick returned his gaze again to the  
photograph, then frowned.  
  
"Yes, Nicholas? Does something trouble you?" Lacroix asked, his voice  
silkily solicitous. The hand on Nick's shoulder tightened slightly,  
making Nick uncomfortably aware of its presence.  
  
"As a matter of fact, yes." Nick looked from the painting to Lacroix,  
then back again. "The painter seems to have exaggerated some things."  
  
"Such as?"  
  
Nick pointed mutely to the photograph. "I don't remember this as  
being quite so, um, impressive. Of course, it has been quite a while,  
but...it looks like the artist was flattering his patron." He smiled  
and shrugged. "It happens."  
  
Lacroix looked at the open page on Nick's lap. The magazine didn't  
seem to be lying flat anymore. "Nonsense. I see nothing out of  
order."  
  
Nick continued, "And these poses. I can scarcely believe a mortal  
could achieve these positions! Surely not without dislocating  
something."  
  
Lacroix's hand slid down Nick's arm. "I assure you, although the  
participants were prime specimens, no unusual physical prowess was  
required." He raised his eyebrows slightly, and pursed his lips  
thoughtfully. "Would you care for a demonstration? Purely as an  
academic exercise, of course." The hand rubbed up and down Nick's arm  
in a mute invitation.  
  
Nick tentatively covered Lacroix's hand with his own. Do I want  
this? His thoughts careened wildly between refusing the supprising  
invitation and accepting it. It was obvious Lacroix had come over  
with this exact thing in mind. And he was asking, not demanding, a  
unique event in itself.  
But then he thought, What the hell---it's not like I've been getting  
any anywhere else. Sometimes you just have to go with your feelings.  
And his feelings at that particular moment were decidedly erotic.  
  
Nick said, "It might be interesting. In an academic way." He squeezed  
slightly, his breath quickening involuntarily. "We don't have the  
appropriate costuming, though. I haven't worn a tunic in years."  
  
Lacroix smiled serenely. "Neither have I. We'll simply have to  
improvise."  
  
The next several moments were a flurry of movements and whispered  
words. Clothing drifted to the floor, mounds of black silk, cotton,  
and leather.  
  
Time passed as choreography was explained and demonstrated, the  
master instructing the willing but skeptical pupil. The fresco  
photograph was referred to several times then finally discarded.  
  
Moans and grunts of effort sounded through the quiet loft. "Put this  
leg here, Nicholas...no, like that...yesssss, just so..."  
  
"Ow! That hurts, I don't bend that way...oh!" A gasp of pleasure. "A  
bit to the left, no, more..." A sigh. "You were right, the artist  
didn't exaggerate at all..."  
  
Things were progressing quite satisfactorily on all fronts; in fact,  
they were reaching what would probably be a resounding conclusion.  
Lacroix groaned, "Yesssss, Nicholas, yessssss," as their efforts  
redoubled in the heat and frenzy of passion. The coffee table had  
long ago been upended, and the sofa was several feet from its normal  
position.  
  
An electronic shriek rent the air.  
  
Two heaving bodies froze into an uncomfortable tableau.  
  
"What was that?!?" hissed Lacroix, his muscles straining to maintain  
his precarious position.  
  
"I don't know," Nick panted from his.  
  
"...welcome to St. Odelia's Polka Jamboree! Get ready for nonstop  
polka fun, starting NOW!!!" The amplified voice coming from somewhere  
outside reverberated off the loft's stark walls. Both men  
involuntarily turned their faces towards the lowered steel shutters,  
which were amply demonstrating the fact that steel by itself provides  
completely ineffective sound insulation.  
  
There was a mighty chord from an accordion; a voice intoned, "And  
a-one, and a-two, and a-" and the entire band thundered into a  
rousing rendition of the Too Fat Polka. Cheers from at least five  
hundred throats split the air.  
  
Inside the loft, the mood was irrevocably shattered. The tableau  
collapsed.  
  
"Nicholas, what is going on?!?" growled Lacroix from his position on  
the floor underneath Nick.  
  
Nick's brain collated sights and sounds he had heard but not paid any  
attention to over the past two days---a stage being assembled;  
concession stands being set up; a dozen Porta-Potties standing in a  
maloderous green row; the banner stretched across the far end of the  
parking lot across the street announcing an eighteen-hour polka  
fundraiser to benefit the local Catholic parish.  
  
He said weakly, "It's a polka party."  
  
Lacroix pushed Nick aside and climbed to his feet in disgust. "So I  
surmised from the caterwauling." He shot a poisonous look at the  
shutters. "And I am trapped here for the duration, forced to listen  
to this amateur Lawrence Welk and his band of tone-deaf peasants." He  
stalked off across the loft, his nude (save for the black silk  
gartered socks, which had somehow not joined the cloths on the floor)  
white body quivering with anger.  
  
Nick got to his feet. "Sorry." He went over to his master and said,  
"You know, this doesn't have to be that bad."  
  
Lacroix swung around to face him. "Oh? Do tell how you plan to  
survive this noise. Cotton in your ears?"  
  
"No." Nick held out his arms in invitation and quoted a more famous,  
and almost as athletic, pair. "'Let's face the music, and dance.'" He  
grinned boyishly.  
  
"You can lead."  
  
Fin.  
  
~~~~~  
  
Thanks go to certain parties who probably wish to remain nameless,  
but heck...all right, it was Kathy Whelton who suggested the sock  
garters. And the person to blame for this is Erika Wilson, who,  
after my last story ("Good Help is Hard to Find"), asked me what new  
torture I was planning on devising for Nick, and suggested as a  
possibility, among others, a three-day polka festival in his parking  
lot.  
  
Don't blame Erika, though. She was kidding, but I actually wrote the  
darned thing.  
  
  
*** Nancy Kaminski--UF, NNPack, Harbourlight, BH List Lobster Keeper  
*** nancykam@pioneerplanet.infi.net  
*** Home Page/Fiction: http://pioneerplanet.infi.net/~nancykam  
*** Proud owner of Favory Cremona, Lipizzan Stallion--"Go For  
Baroque!"  
  
  



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